Hardik Rajgor

W henever three or more people get engaged in any kind of activity, one of them commits the sin of uttering the five most futile words in the  English  language: “Let’s make a WhatsApp group.” This puts everybody involved in a bind, as an honest opinion is not what friends and families want. So how do you respond when someone insists, “ WhatsApp  group yahin banayenge!” You know the drill — four  school  friends have met after a decade, they feel guilty for not being in touch, they make a Goa plan that’ll never materialise, and just to show commitment to the cause, one of them declares that a WhatsApp group called  Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara  is a must. A group, that’ll end up discarded like Hrithik Roshan’s phone that Farkhan Akhtar flung out of a moving car.  Of course, not all pointless WhatsApp groups are created equal. Some are borne out of guilt. Some come into being through sheer stupidity. And some out of compulsion. An office group with...

W hen you grow up in a middle-class home, outlets for creativity are limited, much like political options in India. Right from  school , pursuits like drawing,  singing , and craft are considered “extracurricular activities” — basically a waste of time. If you excel at them, the only stage you’re offered is at family functions where dad tells you “Beta, uncle ko ganaa gaake sunao” or “Beta, dadi ki liye birthday card banao”. As a career choice, art is considered the bottom of the barrel. If you told your parents, you wanted to join a design school, they’d sit you down to tell you, “Yeh ameeron ke shauq hain, beta.” Only rich people can afford creative careers, because “scope nahi hai”. Middle-class folks are required to curb their creativity the same way Hardik Pandya curbs his attacking instincts in  Test cricket . However, there is one festival which turns into a mosh pit for the creative types – Ganesh Chaturthi. Ganesha is the God of Fun, associated with music, ...

C an you truly call yourself a  ’90s kid  if your folks didn’t bundle you off for cycling, karate, or swimming every summer? Indian parents did not want their kids wasting time watching Cartoon Network all day, so they came up with a checklist to create a master race, and the way to do that was to teach the subjects a new skill during every vacation. First, I started with cycling, because I live in a  Gujarati  family and it was the cheapest investment. The next year,  The Karate Kid  was a huge hit, and I was screaming, “Hu! Ha!” every morning in a white robe with the confidence of Bruce Lee and the ability of a ’90s-era Adnan Sami. Once land was conquered, it was time to venture into Poseidon’s realm, and master the art of swimming. My  father  believed in the old-school instruction method of throwing me into a slow-moving river and hoping for the best. After definitely swallowing a few litres of dirty water and probably a few small fish, ...

“S ir, is your name… Hard-dick?” By the age of 14, I had lost patience to correct every person who got my name wrong, so I just nodded at the immigration officer at Jerusalem  airport . She showed my passport to her colleague sitting nearby and they both shared a giggle. I thought the horror show was over but I soon heard my name pronounced incorrectly again. This time, over the loudspeaker because I’d forgotten to collect a document. Some people around started laughing and my  mom  looked at me with a confused face and asked “Beta, kem hasse che badha (Why is everyone laughing?)” My parents and relatives all studied in Gujarati-medium schools and in the language – as well as in  Hindi  and Marathi – Hardik has a sweet meaning. It means “from the heart”. I won’t go into the specifics, but let’s just say  Gujarati  is a deceptive language. Gota is a deep-fried delicacy and muthiya is a breakfast snack. So while my name had a positive connotation i...

I grew up in simpler times, in the town of Mira Road, a place that merely existed as a banter point on whether it was a part of Thane or  Mumbai . Mira Road received water at the same frequency I got a beating from my mom, i.e., once every three days. Plus, my forefathers came from Kutch. Clearly, my  family  was attracted to places with water problems the same way United States foreign policy is attracted to places with oil. Water was so precious to us, that our minds went into  Marwari  mode when it came to spending it. Showers were alien to us, and the only accessories in our 4×4 bathroom were a red bucket and a blue mug. In Mira Road, water was heated by my mom on a stove. In Kutch, on a chulha. Most kids my age received  pocket money . I, instead, received half a bucket of water and could use it any way I wanted. And my only friend was a green Medimix bar. Medmix was the superhero of the soap world. It was all the  Avengers  rolled into...